by David Holman
‘Jesus!’ Gable put down the receiver and grabbed his coat. Outside, he climbed into the Sapphire and fumbled in the glove compartment for a roadmap. After checking for a route, he turned on the ignition.
Swan looked at the clock on the wall. It was ten minutes to one. An idea came to him. ‘Is there an aircraft available to use?’ he asked the medical officer.
Twenty minutes later the Brinton Aviation twin engine De Havilland Devon VIP transport took off from the company’s runway, climbing into the early afternoon sunshine. Pilot Brian Turnbull banked the aircraft to the left and headed south across the Lake District, setting a course for Farnborough.
His passenger sat back in his cabin chair and took stock of the events of the last few hours. He had informed the medical officer of the body in the hangar and the circumstances behind it, and then managed to speak with the duty manager and arrange the flight to Farnborough.
Earlier, while the Devon was being prepared for flight, Swan had had a quick conversation with Inspector George Lake, and shortly afterwards, in disbelief, the policeman had got into his car and stared at the small speck as the aircraft disappeared into the clouds.
He sat and wondered if he was maybe in a dream, and would suddenly wake up to his alarm clock, bring his wife Doreen a cup of tea, then go to work to have a normal day of police work, away from CIA spies, secret agents and attempts of industrial sabotage.
*
Climbing the Rapier prototype into the sky, Eddie Kershaw spoke into his microphone. ‘Pembridge Control, Angel-One airborne, heading on course Zero South-South East, Airspeed - 400 knots, ETA Farnborough MATZ at 14.20.’
Glimmering in the sunshine, the sleek aircraft banked to the right and straightened on a holding course over the Bristol Channel, where it would then rendezvous with the chaser aircraft.
From there, they would both run in over the Chiltern Hills in close formation and overfly Windsor Castle, ready for the display at the SBAC show.
*
Swan looked out the portside window of the Devon’s cockpit and caught glimpses of the Malvern Hills, as the aircraft flew over at 4000ft. Turnbull looked over at Swan. ‘Sir it may be nothing, but as I was signing for this aircraft, I spoke to the mechanic who did the flight checks. He had just done the flight checks on the Rapier, before it left for Pembridge. I don’t know what the Yanks are using inside that drone thing of theirs, but according to him, it is as light as a feather and there’s no power connections, so it can’t be running on an internal battery, as it would weigh a ton. He also said that he gave it a soft kick, and it seemed like the whole thing was hollow.’
‘Hollow?’ Swan confirmed.
‘That’s right. It doesn’t make any sense, does it?’
Swan stared out the window as the white cotton wool clouds shot past. ‘No it doesn’t, Brian. No sense at all.’ He thought for a second, and remembered that he had been shown the control panel for the Python Hawk during the inspection. Why was this put into the Rapier, if the pod didn’t actually work? He pondered on this thought for a few minutes, then it suddenly struck him.
‘The bomb is in the panel!’
Turnbull turned his head to one side. ‘Sorry, sir, I didn’t quite hear you,’ Turnbull shouted to his passenger above the pitch of the engines.
Swan turned to him. ‘Brian, can you put me in contact with RAF Pembridge?’
Turnbull nodded. ‘No problem sir, I think we are still within their MATZ.’
He clicked on his radio microphone. ‘Pembridge Control, Pembridge Control, this is Brinton Two-Five calling, over.’
A few seconds of static followed, then a voice was heard through the cockpit speaker system.
‘Brinton Two Five, this is Pembridge Control receiving, over.’ Warrant Officer Phil Munroe sat in the control tower at RAF Pembridge and listened to the call coming in.
‘Pembridge, this is Alex Swan of the MOD. I’m en route to Farnborough,’ Swan looked over at Turnbull’s watch. It was 13.50. He spoke again. ‘Contact the pilot of the Rapier en route for Farnborough, and instruct to return to base-over.’
Munroe listened and needed confirmation ‘Brinton Two-Five, please say again, over.’
Swan repeated himself and added something that made the controller suddenly jump up from his chair. ‘Bloody hell,’ Munroe pushed a button on his panel. ‘Angel-One, this is Pembridge Control come in – over.’
There was static silence from the loudspeaker. He tried again, but still received no reply.
Heading out over the Bristol Channel, Kershaw checked his position, then spoke into his radio. ‘Angel-One to Farnborough Control, over.’
He listened but all he heard was static. ‘Farnborough Control, Farnborough Control this is Angel-One, on a heading two four zero standing off - over.’
He then noticed the chase plane beside him. ‘Chaser-Three receiving - over. He listened but still received static. Damn, he thought, I have a radio malfunction.
Timmy Bell had now come alongside the starboard wing of the Rapier and into view with Kershaw. He glanced over and put up his hand to acknowledge his friend, and Kershaw placed his hand to the side of his flying helmet and then placed it across his neck. Bell had instantly recognized this as the international aviation sign, for the radio was not working.
Kershaw spoke on the internal frequency to his number two sitting in the cockpit behind him. ‘Sandy, the bloody radio’s not working. I can’t communicate with Farnborough, or with Timmy over on our starboard wing – shall we abort, old chap?’
Ludlow instantly responded: ‘I reckon we should go, Eddie. Remember, we need the public on our side to save the poor girl.’
Kershaw agreed. ‘I‘m with you, Sandy. I’ll sign to let Timmy know and take her in.’ He looked at his watch. It was 13.55. On his left, the black box bolted to the port side of his instrument panel showed a small green light, and as far as Kershaw was concerned, he understood that this indicated that the device had power. However, what it really meant was that as soon as Kershaw had left Pembridge and changed frequency, this had triggered the jamming device inside the box, and it was now doing its job of blocking external radio transmissions to and from the aircraft.
Beneath this small box of tricks in a recess under the super imposed GK Inc label sat the detonator, leading to the block of TNT behind it. With just one controlled signal to the built-in receiver, the blast would be enough to blow a large hole in the port side of the front cockpit, causing enough damage to send the big silver war machine prototype plummeting into a dive to destruction.
*
Brian Turnbull spoke into his radio. ‘Farnborough Tower – this is Brinton Two-Five approaching and requesting landing - Over.’
The reply was instant. ‘Brinton Two-Five, this is Farnborough Tower. You are clear to land on Runway 24, wind speed is 30 knots, south westerly. You have a window of five minutes – Over and out.’
Turnbull brought the Devon through the cloud and, lining up with the lights of Farnborough’s Runway 24, pulled the lever to lower the undercarriage and glided over the black and white threshold markings, touching down onto the concrete.
A few minutes later, Arthur Gable was standing beside an operator in the control tower, and out of the large glass panes, watched a dark blue delta shaped jet land at the end of the runway. As it moved along, a parachute sprung from the rear and spread itself to slow the aircraft down.
The flight controller turned to him. ‘Sir, we’ve just received a message from the chase aircraft. Angel-One has a radio malfunction.’
Another controller shouted over to them. ‘Sir, the Brinton Aviation Devon is just taxiing in from Runway 24.’
Gable looked at his watch, it was 14.05. On the other side of the airfield, Brannigan dropped his cigarette stub onto the floor and stepped on it. He also checked his watch and walked along the trade stands of Hall 1, and out into the display area to the packed crowds.
A voice on the public address system rang out, ‘Attention,
this is a call for Mr Jake Brannigan of GK Systems. Please can he go to the display office situated behind Hall 4, Thank you.’
Startled at the sound of his name, Brannigan looked up at the speaker. He looked around, placed the box on the wall next to him, and opened it. Inside was the camera in which the late Frank Maitland had briefed him.
Brannigan picked it up and checked it, noticing the three buttons on the side of the outer casing. He placed the strap around his neck and reached into his pocket, pulling out a sheet of notepaper. He quickly glanced at Maitland’s written instructions, then placed the note back into his pocket.
The crowd had all moved to the barriers, watching a small helicopter perform a landing on the back of a flatbed trailer. Brannigan moved among the crowd, stopping occasionally to survey his surroundings.
Outside the display office Swan and Gable briefed a group of policemen from the Hampshire Constabulary. Also in attendance were five soldiers of the Coldstream Guards, who were at the show as part of the detachment to protect the royal party of the Duke and Duchess of Gloucester.
Swan spoke to the uniformed bodies before him. ‘Jake Brannigan will most likely be armed, we must find him before three o’clock.’ He checked his watch. It was 14.35. ‘We have exactly twenty five minutes, gentlemen.’ He turned to the senior ranking soldier. ‘Staff Sergeant, you take one of your men and three constables, and search the exhibition halls. Mr Gable and I will take the rest of your men and these two constables and search along the crowd line. If you see someone matching the American’s description, then I want you to call in on the walkie-talkies with his location. Is everyone clear?’
Everyone nodded at Swan. ‘One more thing, he will probably have a short range transmitter on him to radio the bomb. It is vital we get to this before the Silver Angel comes into range. Good luck, everyone.’ He stood watching with Gable as they filed out of the door.
Chapter 24
Outside the boardroom at the Ministry of Supply, Howard Barnett sat opposite his boss Henry Brinton, looking down at the highly polished wood floor. Situated to the right of the boardroom door was the secretary to the Minister’s desk.
Hilary Baker sat at the desk, going through a transcript of dictation from a previous meeting. Barnett could hear voices coming from inside the room and glanced over to Brinton. They didn’t say anything; the looks they gave each other completely interpreted their thoughts. Then, the intercom buzzed on Hilary Baker’s desk, and she leant over, pushing the red button.
A disembodied metallic voice sounded through the speaker.
‘Please can you send in Mr Brinton and Mr Barnett, Hilary.’
The secretary instantly responded. ‘Yes, Minister.’ She looked over her glasses at the Brinton men. ‘The Minister will see you now gentlemen. Please go straight in.’
Almost simultaneously, the two men picked up their black briefcases and rose from their chairs. Barnett paused to allow Brinton to enter the room first. Inside the long room, Barnett stood taking in the surroundings. Lining the walls were portraits of the pioneers of British industrial achievements across the centuries, with the likes of Sir Christopher Wren, Abraham Darby III, Robert Stevenson and Thomas Telford, among others who had made a vast contribution to Britain’s thriving development. Barnett walked over to the long, highly polished oak table and sat down. On the wall opposite looking down at him was his childhood favourite industrial pioneer, Isambard Kingdom Brunel. Barnett smiled as the steely eyes of the Victorian engineer gazed at him, posed with one hand in the pocket of his coat in front of the SS Great Eastern. One of his many mechanical accomplishments. ‘If I sit here in front of you dear old Isambard, hopefully it will be good omen,’ Barnett suggested.
Henry Brinton sat next to him and placed his briefcase on the table. Barnett shuffled in his chair and then turned his attention to the four men sitting to the right of him. ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen. Thank you for coming,’ greeted the Minister. ‘May I introduce the other gentlemen present at our meeting?’
The Minister turned to his right. ‘Sir Gordon Longworth, you already know of course.’ The balding sixty-four year old Defence Secretary acknowledged the two men with a cursory nod.
The Minster then turned to his left, but before he could make introductions, Barnett instantly realised that he was in the presence of none other than the US Secretary of State for Defence Richard Weinstein. The barrel chested tanned Californian stood and held out a hand to the Brinton men. ‘Gentlemen, it’s a real privilege to meet you both.’ Weinstein turned to the man sitting next to him. ‘May I introduce my chief advisor, Mr Walter Tillman?’
Tillman gave a wry smile, and stood up, also shaking the hands of the Brinton men. The seconds of silence that followed were broken by a tap at the door.
Hilary Baker walked in and sat down, placing a notepad and pen on the table in front of her. The Minister gave a friendly glare at his secretary, then addressed the table. ‘Right gentlemen, I declare this a closed meeting, and it is now in session. Ms Baker will be taking the minutes. As you are all aware, the White Paper on Defence Spending is due out tomorrow. We are here to review the situation with the BR-101 Rapier to meet Operation Requirement OR599. In light of this, we are especially interested in the update of the power plant situation. Looking at last week’s report on the extra expenditure figures, I have been asked by the PM to make an urgent decision, whether to go for the BR-101 to meet OR599, or look at similar alternatives.’
Barnett caught the Minister’s quick glance at the Americans, as he said the final word. ‘Quite frankly, the PM is most concerned that if the White Paper isn’t delivered to the house on time, serious questions will be asked by the opposition, bringing which it some potential political embarrassment to this government. So with all this at stake Mr Brinton, perhaps you can enlighten us with the latest development with this?’
Henry Brinton stood up from the table and addressed everyone. ‘May I hand that over to my Chief Designer, who has been overseeing this situation first-hand? Howard, might I ask you to inform these gentlemen of the current situation concerning the engines?’
As Brinton sat back down, Barnett fiddled with some papers then stood up. ‘Gentlemen, I have here the latest report on the BRE-311A engine. I can say that we have established the problems and are addressing them at the moment. The ground tests are scheduled for next week, so I can assure you that we will have a positive result from this, and flight testing will commence as soon as possible.’
The Minster interrupted. ‘Please excuse me, Mr Barnett. That is all well and good, but all we have seen so far is more additional costs to get this engine right. Can you truly guarantee to me that we will have the engine fully operational in the next few weeks?’
Barnett stared coldly at the Minister. ‘What I can guarantee is that I have my excellent team on it now, and they’re working their backsides off to get the BRE-311A operational.’
Embarrassed, Brinton took hold of Barnett’s arm. ‘Steady on Howard,’ he whispered.
The minister gave them both a cynical look. ‘I’m sure that they are Mr Barnett,’ he said, smiling coyly at the Americans.
‘However, we have heard all of this before, so I feel that we are really no further forward with this issue. Would you not agree, Sir Gordon?’
Longworth nodded. ‘I’ve had report after report, but all the same news Minister,’ he replied.
The Minister continued. ‘Quite so, which brings me to a proposal that I have been discussing with our honoured guests here, and that we seriously now should consider: If the GK Systems FB-X aircraft, should meet OR599, and the BR-101 be downgraded to meet another operational requirement, for a supersonic low level tactical reconnaissance aircraft, to support the FB- X missions. Naturally, if this was so, then we would have to reduce the initial order of one hundred and eighteen airframes to about fifty-five. If I can now ask our honoured guest, the Secretary of State for Defence, to comment on this?’
Outraged, Barnett silently sat
down. Weinstein rose and smiled warmly at the Brinton men. ‘Gentlemen, if I can start by congratulating you on the production of a fine machine. Ihe Rapier is an outstanding design and something that is a major contribution to world air power. If the UK decided to take the FB-X, then the Rapier, will make the ideal support aircraft for it.’
Barnett turned to his boss in disgust, then interrupted. ‘In due respect Mr Secretary, the FB-X I believe, is running slightly behind schedule. Am I right in saying that you have to use the Rapier for the Python Hawk tests, because the avionics of the FB-X are not ready yet?’
Weinstein glanced at Barnett. ‘Mr Barnett, I am aware that the Python Hawk unit is being tested on your airplane, and that is because some of your potential Rapier customers have ordered the Python Hawk. So it was only logical that the Rapier be used to test the equipment. The FB-X is ready, and we haven’t had any problems with the JF-200B engine, as it has been the power plant for some of our aircraft for the last decade, and even as we speak, these aircraft are seeing some intense combat action. We will of course be updating this engine to JF-200C standard on the production machines. With all this in place, we could supply the UK with three FB-X prototypes within the next six months, followed by say, one hundred and ten production aircraft, by the end of next year.’
Barnett took a sip of water. He could feel the rage welling up inside him, but for the sake of his boss, vowed to himself to keep it under control.
Weinstein sat back down, then the Minister took over again. ‘Thank you, Mr Secretary, that is a very good offer that needs to be considered, and I will be discussing it in detail with the PM this evening. Now, I think we need to ask Mr Brinton what he thinks of this new proposal.’
Henry Brinton remained seated. ‘Minister, the BR-101 was originally designed to meet OR599 and along the way, there has been a lot of changes in both the design and the workforce. Despite the engines, the aircraft is what the UK needs and more. The recent performance evaluation reports have showed that the BR-101 has exceeded all expectations. She is years ahead of her time, and through appropriate updates, will see service for at least the next thirty years. We have twelve potential customers, seven of which have signed the dotted line so to speak, and I feel to downgrade her role, undermines the work and more significantly, the costs that have already been put into the project. That’s all I have to say at present on the subject.’